


While the World Keeps Turning

by ncruuk



Series: Save and Sacrifice [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-15 03:19:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10549190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncruuk/pseuds/ncruuk
Summary: Before the dust has settled and before the smoke has cleared, the official history of the night is already written.  And officially forgotten.  Which is why she considers it her duty, hers and hers alone, to record a different history.All the while, the world keeps turning....which is exactly as it should be.[follows on from parts 1and 2 in the series]





	

Stretching her arms out in front of her, Kate Stewart saw that her watch was proclaiming it to be almost seven.  Above her, the dawn was starting - even here, in the heart of this most congested of cities, dawn was heralded by a chorus, both natural and man made.  Alongside the birdsong of the hardy few who called the urban centre their home would be the rising roar of the traffic as another day began for millions of people...their lives a routine that didn’t alter with the seasons, their stride that didn’t falter as the world kept turning.

 

The world kept turning. 

 

The dawn kept breaking.

 

The birds kept singing.

 

Man kept moving.  

 

One more stride, one more day.

 

Up there, those people riding on the first tube trains of the day had no idea about how close they’d been to not catching the train, just as those people walking along the river, marvelling in the morning light or managing to stay unmoved by the spectacle were unaware that yesterday’s ignored dawn could have been the last.  

 

Up there, no one knew that far away in some land a landscape was freshly scarred, the air still heavy with the dust thrown up from the destruction, the sky still obscured by smoke as some unbelieved enemy was defeated.

 

Up there and out there, no one knew that they’d been saved, no one knew about the ‘job well done’ that meant this day was dawning, and that was as it should be.

 

Down here, in this office, in these hours between the dead of night and the break of day, she knew, knew that the ‘job well done’ had come at a price.  Dawn’s chorus sang a requiem in remembrance to their sacrifice by starting this day the same as any other.  No flags were lowered, no bands of black were stitched on tunics but that did not mean their actions were not remembered, did not mean their lost lives were not mourned.  

 

Eight young men had done their duty.

 

Eight young men had saved the world.

 

Eight brave hearts had stopped.

 

Now, it was time for her to do her duty.

 

Rubbing the back of her neck to force the stiffness away, Kate Stewart reached for a fresh sheet of writing paper, the heavy cream sheet with the UNIT emblem embossed at the top and her name and position printed exactly as protocol dictated it should appear below the emblem.

 

_ K Lethbridge-Stewart _

_ Chief Scientific Officer _

_ Head of UNIT (United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland) _

 

For the eighth time that morning, she uncapped her fountain pen, the gold pen glinting in the glow of the reading light on her desk as she turned the barrel in her fingers until the nib was up.  Writing the date under her name and positions, she closed her eyes and composed herself and her words.

 

Opening her eyes, Kate looked at the piece of paper, checked it was positioned squarely on the desk before her, her pen nib angled such that it would neither scratch nor seep.  With one final glance to the stack of seven envelopes already addressed and sealed to her left, she wrote a single word.

 

_ Dear _

 

There was nothing else she could write on that first line, no name she could associate with her salutation.  It was her order that saw the soldier die but not her right to know from whom the soldier had been taken.  She did not know if she was addressing a mother who had lost a son or a child that had lost a father.  It did not matter, not because she did not care but because she already cared.  It was enough to know that someone, somewhere now had a place at the family dinner table forever vacant; that somewhere, someday, there would be a family photograph with one member missing; that someone, somewhere would be missing this heart that was no longer beating, missing it during good times and times of pain and grief.

 

Starting on a new line, she began to write, the first few words of this letter the same as the last seven she had written this morning, the same as the seven hundred and forty-seven she had written before today had started dawning.

 

_ You will have already received a letter that talks at length about honour and duty but barely touches on the reasons why such a sacrifice was necessary. _

 

Looking up from her writing and putting down her pen, Kate reached to her right and picked up the one remaining file, the last of eight that she had looked at since returning to her desk.

 

Retriever One.

 

Joe Ford.  Twenty-four years old.

 

Picking up her pen once more, the details clear in her mind, she began to write words that would only be written once.  They were the words that explained who he was and how he was a hero.  They were the words only she could write, the story only she could tell: her words, that applied only to him.

 

_ Joe was mortally wounded in Afghanistan after defeating the enemy in close combat.  The enemy was a member of an alien species whose intention was to destroy this planet’s ability to sustain life, to eradicate humanity… _

 

Five paragraphs later, at the bottom of the second sheet of paper, she signed her name clearly and confidently, ensuring that the veracity of the letter’s contents could never be disputed, his sacrifice never manipulated to suit a different history.  Folding the papers precisely, she sealed the letter into an envelope which she then addressed:

 

_ FAO: Next of Kin, Retriever One. _

 

Placing the envelope on top of the seven already written and addressed, the team reunited one final time, she placed the stack carefully in her out tray.  Recapping her fountain pen, she stood up and, scooping up her cufflinks from the desk, she headed across her office to the cupboard where a suit bag hung.  Pocketing her cufflinks, she returned to her desk and picked up her discarded suit jacket, noticing that it was just gone half past seven. 

 

Checking her desk one final time, she nodded, satisfied that all was in order.  There, in her out tray were the eight files summarising the eight lives lost, alongside the eight letters that sought to answer questions not yet asked by loved ones not yet grieving.

 

Squaring her shoulders, she turned and left her office.

 

When she returned, the cuffs of her clean shirt fastened by her silver greyhounds, the creases in her jacket and trousers crisp from the cleaner’s press, her out tray was empty and her mug was filled with fresh coffee.  To look at her you’d think she’d just arrived to start the day rather than maintained a night long vigil.  Only her socks and the security logs could dispute that theory, and no one would be looking at either, which was exactly as she wanted it, exactly as it should be.

 

Down here, the world had kept turning. 

 

By now, the envelopes were sealed, a greyhound impressed into the wax to ensure there could be no doubt to their authenticity, and carefully stored deep within the Archives, ready to be read if the right moment and opportunity ever arose.  That was the protocol, unbreakable, predictable, reliable. 

 

She had no idea how many, if any, of the seven hundred and fifty-five letters she had now written to unknown next-of-kin had been read, just as her father had no idea how many of his same letters had been opened.  

 

She’d not known that she was following in his footsteps when she’d sat down and written that first letter.  Nor had he known, when he’d given her his fountain pen, engraved with his initials the day he was commissioned as an Officer, that she’d be using it to write the same letters he wrote.

 

The official files, slim records of the identities of the latest lives lost defending those who called this planet home, were no longer in existence.  

 

Gone, officially denied but actively remembered.

  
  


Soon, eight commanding officers would be notifying eight next of kin about the deaths of soldiers, speaking of lives cut short, of sacrifices made in service.  Their words would be serious but safe, speaking not of aliens and UNIT but of accidents with their regiment.  Calls for more details, more in depth explanations would be met with conciliatory kindness and murmurs about clearances sought but ultimately not yet granted.  Cover stories would be carefully constructed and continually referenced, checked to make sure no cracks were forming and no accidental truths allowed to escape.

  
  


Less than six hours ago, she was the one whose order to fire saved the world.

 

She was the one who knew the names of the eight lives lost because of that order.

 

She was the one whose order to attack would always be denied, so classified as to never be acknowledged were anyone to seek to prove it had been given.

 

She was the one responsible, whose place was protected in the shadows created to conceal that which others did not want to know about.

 

She was the one in Command. 

 

She was Greyhound One.

 

She was Kate Stewart, at the start of this new day, a day that almost didn’t start after a night that officially no one would remember but one woman would never forget.  

 

Which was exactly as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
